He left This World as we began Bereishis.
Just as we finished V’Zos HaBerachah, the Torah’s final song, we turned the scroll and began again.
No pause. No breath between ending and beginning.
V’Zos HaBerachah closes with the death of Moshe and Bereishis opens with creation itself.
It feels divinely scripted. Because Rabbi Moshe Hauer’s life was one long Bereishis, a life of beginnings.
He lived with the wonder of first things. Every conversation, every idea, every individual — he approached as if it were brand new. There was no fatigue in him, no “I’ve seen this before.” He believed that Hashem renews the world every morning, and he tried to live that way, too. His legacy was youth; the kind that does not fade with age, because it comes from seeing everything through the eyes of purpose.
When others saw dead ends, he saw openings. When others said, “Finished,” he said, “Start again.” He tested the old boundaries, not out of defiance, but out of hope — the way a child pushes at the edge of a fence to see if perhaps, overnight, it’s been moved. He was convinced that Hashem is still creating, still whispering new beginnings into a world that often forgets to listen.
Our personal connection was woven through the shared journeys of our children: our Tzvi and his Shlomo, school together, yeshivah together, and now, heartbreakingly, still together in the stories they will tell. His family is its own chapter of nobility. His rebbetzin, a semel, a true emblem of what it means to be a rebbetzin: gentle strength, quiet wisdom, steadfast commitment and heart. Her kindness ripples throughout our community in so many ways. His children carry themselves with dignity that feels inherited from generations: regal and refined, yet so disarmingly warm.
He was a rebbi and rav to thousands, but a lifelong talmid, too. From Rav Yaakov Weinberg, zt”l, he absorbed clarity, wisdom and courage; from, yibadel l’chaim, Rav Moshe Mendel Glustein, shlita, he drew majesty, humility, and strength. The two converged in him: intellect and empathy, brilliance and restraint.
“Karan ohr panav — his face shone.” His voice was low, warm, velvety — one of those voices that makes you stop what you’re doing. He didn’t demand attention; he drew it through sincerity. A true talmid chacham, he could explain complex Torah or painful current events with the same quality: calm, clarity, compassion.
He loved Klal Yisrael with everything he had. Not as an idea, but as a family. You could see how the pain of our people lived inside him. It felt as though his neshamah waited, held on, until the hostages were released, as if his heart couldn’t leave This World while theirs were still bound.
Moreover, his love for every Jew and his devotion to Torah were one, each feeding the other. He dreamed of Torah reaching every home, every individual, in ways both timeless and new. Through All Daf and his partnership with ArtScroll, that dream took form; Torah made closer, warmer, alive in the hearts of thousands.
Baltimore is shaken, visibly so. The OU feels hollow. Young rabbanim walk through the days in disbelief. Because Rabbi Hauer was unique, a rebirth of the kind of leadership we crave: thoughtful, balanced, human. He showed what Torah looks like when it meets the modern world with courage and grace. He made people believe again that faith can be both firm and tender.
He loved Eretz Yisrael with a deep yearning that was almost physical. He admired Rav Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal and carried his Eim HaBanim Semeichah like a personal anthem —that from ruins, we rebuild; that redemption hides in courage.
Rabbi Hauer died at Bereishis, but his life was one continuous creation.
And perhaps that’s how Heaven wrote it: In the death of Moshe, another Moshe rises. The setting of the sun in V’Zos HaBerachah brings the rising of the moon in Bereishis. One light fades, and another begins to glow. There are moments in history when the world loses a light, only to find that it has been scattered into thousands of smaller ones.
Reb Moshe’s light does not end; it multiplies — in the homes he guided, the rabbanim he inspired, the families he believed in, the hearts he taught to see new beginnings.
Because that was his way, to find life where others saw conclusion, to believe in dawn after night.
V’Zos HaBerachah.
Bereishis bara Elokim.
The sun sets, the moon rises, and creation begins again.
And somewhere, in the heavens, Rabbi Moshe Hauer begins again, too; his voice still soft, still sure, still filled with the eternal youth of an individual that never stopped believing that creation was not finished.
Yehei zichro baruch.
